


Home for the Holidays

by BrenanaBread



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, ML Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 16:44:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13058034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrenanaBread/pseuds/BrenanaBread
Summary: Adrien spends Christmas in the Dupain-Cheng household.





	Home for the Holidays

**Author's Note:**

> This was for ML Secret Santa 2017 :)

Gentle light pokes in through her windows, tickling Marinette’s nose and cheeks, rousing her from her slumber. She turns her head to bury it into her pillow, nuzzling her nose into the sheets and angling her face so as to avoid the strands of morning that hope to wake her.

Deep, muffled laughter floats up from below, inspiring a small quirk of her lips as she’s comforted by her father’s signature sound. He’s always been known for his rumbling voice, the low melody a lullaby to her ears.

Music filters into her room, the bright, happy sounds of a holiday song. The bells ringing in the background of the tune remind her of angels and carolers. It’s almost enough to lift her from the cozy den she’s created.

Once the sweet smell of pastries and crêpes drifts through her home, finally finding its way to her nose, she can’t deny the urge to leave her cocoon in favor of the soul-renewing warmth only provided by familial love.

She takes one last breath and squeezes her eyes shut, reveling in the final moments before her eyes are exposed to a too-bright sun, reflecting off of snow and momentarily blinding her.

She pushes her body down her bed, rubbing sleep from her eyes with the heel of her palm. Climbing down the ladder that leads to the rest of her room, she runs a hand through her bangs, encouraging it to lay flat against her forehead and not in the twisted angles and spikes she knows it’s become used to from her time buried under her covers.

The trapdoor creaks as she opens it, alerting those downstairs of her awakening. When she makes her way down the stairs, she feels like an American girl in a teen movie, getting ready to leave for prom. All eyes are on her and she tightens her grip on the handrail, certain her knees will give out and her feet will trip over each other until she’s tumbling down the stairs and landing like a heap of tangled-limb laundry.

Her mother is the first to greet her with a kind smile and the voice of a fairy.

“Good morning, sweetheart. Merry Christmas.”

Her father barrels to meet her at the bottom of the staircase, lifting her up into the air like she weighs no more than she did as a child, and swinging her around in a circle. Her legs flail out and she almost bangs into the wall, but it’s a Christmas tradition she hopes never dies.

“Merry Christmas!” his voice ricochets around the small living room as he places her back on the ground, but not without a bone-crushing hug and kiss to the forehead.

“Merry Christmas, Papa,” she returns the greeting, spinning on her heel to skip to her mother and place a kiss on her cheek, “and to you too, Maman.”

Just as she’s ready to run into the kitchen and find the breakfast which coaxed her out of her bed in the first place, an extra “Merry Christmas” catches her attention.

Her eyes jump to a sleep-ravaged Adrien. His hair pokes off at odd angles, pressing flat to one side of his head while splaying out like a star on its edges, staticky tendrils clinging to his ear and wisping in the air.

His sleep shirt is rumpled and creased, one sleeve of the t-shirt flipping up on the end revealing a smattering of freckles on the edge of his shoulder.

But his eyes grab her attention more than his chaotic hair and ruffled attire. They’re the brightest she’s ever seen them, gleaming with a palpable warmth and happiness that flushes her skin and melts her bones.

Quieter than she means to, she says a quick “Merry Christmas, Adrien,” with a nod and a small smile. She can’t help the squeak of joy that bursts past her lips at his returning smile, which shines brighter than the sunlight flashing off the snow outside.

“We’re so lucky to have you with us, sweety,” Sabine chimes from behind the awkward teenagers. “It’s been far too long since we’ve had people over for Christmas.”

Adrien beams at her. “I’m so grateful you invited me over,” he says, running his fingertips through the hair on the back of his head nervously. “Really, I’ll never be able to thank you enough for this.”

“You’ve done quite enough for us already, dear” Sabine laughs, winking at Marinette and sharing a significant look with her husband. A look that Marinette hopes Adrien won’t try to decipher. 

“Welp!” Marinette clasps her hands together loudly, smashing through the budding tension in the room. “Look at the time! I think we need to go grab plates and get going on that breakfast.”

On cue, Adrien’s stomach rumbles and he slaps an arm around his middle, bringing a finger to his lips and shushing his abdomen. 

Tom laughs and reaches out to lightly ruffle his hair. “Alright, everyone grab a plate and bring breakfast back into the living room so we can open presents.”

Running into the kitchen, Marinette yelps as her toes touch cold tile. She hops from foot to foot, piling a plate high with Christmas cookies and crêpes.

As she turns to leave the ice skating rink her kitchen floor has become in favor of the warm, carpeted living room where she can stuff her feet under a blanket, she almost collides into a surprised Adrien.

“Whoa,” he says, and Marinette prepares a frantic apology to launch out of her mouth. “This is amazing!” he finishes and her words die on her tongue, moments before spilling past her lips.

She follows his eyes and tries to take in the sight before her as if for the first time.

In the center of the kitchen counter rests two plates stacked with crêpes. They’re topped with a dusting of powdered sugar, and next to the platter are jars full of chocolate sauce.

On one side of the crêpes, a large, clear bowl sits, filled with tan balls sprinkled with colorful nonpareils and flaked bits of orange rind. The dough balls stick to the side of the bowl and stand on top of each other as a mountain, almost resembling an igloo. 

The other side of the crêpes houses an array of cookies. Some are traditional chocolate chip and sugar cookies. Others are coated with chocolate and crushed almonds on top, piled on a bed of flaky, white cookie. Some are shaped as reindeer and elephants and angels and snowflakes, dusted with icing and sprinkles, smelling faintly of licorice and dough.

The main platter at the front of the counter is a tower of macarons. Dressed in red and green--paying homage to both the season and Paris’s favorite superheroes--the delicate pastries stack in a checkerboard pattern, interlacing the two colors. The base begins in a large circle, the edges of each macaron hanging off the side of the serving plate to accommodate the amount macarons in the center. The macarons that sit atop the layer make a smaller circle, and the layer above that a smaller circle still, creating a cone that tapers off at the top until only one tiny pastry remains. 

“Heh, yeah,” Marinette laughs awkwardly. “We go a bit overboard with the holiday baking.”

“Nonsense, no such thing!” Tom says, walking into the kitchen behind them and placing a hand on Adrien’s shoulder. He gestures to the mouth-watering display with a wide sweep of his arm. “You wouldn’t break an old baker’s heart by not eating his masterpieces, would you?”

Adrien’s eyes widen at being put on the spot, but he laughs good-naturedly and assures the large man he would never dream of letting an ounce of his hard work go to waste.

Marinette grabs Adrien a plate and hands it to him. Their fingertips brush and she lets out an involuntary squeak at the contact, quickly turning away to hide her fierce blush and cover the noise with rushed rambling.

“S-so here we have uh cakes. No- crapes! _Crêpes_ I mean!” she shakes her head, pigtails bouncing from side-to-side and thumping against her shoulders. “Well--heh--obviously, I know that you know that since you can see that these are crêpes, I just figured I should probably clarify in case you _didn’t_ know--what with this being a bakery and all, we definitely _do_ have cakes here--” A loud _clank_ from the sink cuts off her long-winded sentence.

“Oops! Sorry, sweetie, I accidentally dropped a plate. But no worries, nothing broke!” Sabine says, winking at her daughter.

Marinette smiles and nods gratefully at her mother, taking a deep breath to collect her thoughts and calm her rapid pulse before starting to speak again.

“Most already have powdered sugar on them, except for the pile over there,” she points to a smaller stack “which don’t. They’re for Maman since she doesn’t really like straight sugar.” Her eyes widen and she backtracks, “But if you want some that’s totally fine too! I’m sure there are enough to share between you two and I could always make more if need be--”

Adrien places a gentle hand on her shoulder, encouraging her to look up at him. “I love powdered sugar on crêpes, thank you.”

“Oh,” she sighs, relieved. “Um, good.” She gives him a lopsided smile.

“A boy after my own heart!” Tom yells as he exits the kitchen with a plate piled high with treats and heads back into the living room.

“Here,” she taps a finger to the clear bowl “we have _struffoli_. They’re fried dough balls, covered in honey. My dad loves them, he used to make them for _Mamie_ every Christmas when he was a little boy.”

“He can’t stand that Marinette hates them,” Sabine adds.

“I don’t hate them!” she says, slightly mortified. “I just don’t like honey!”

“My honey doesn’t like honey! What’s a baker to do?” Tom bemoans from the other room.

Marinette ignores him. “We have chocolate chip cookies over here. And sugar cookies are right beside them. Maman makes the chocolate almond cookie bars which are those,” she points. “And the ones in all different shapes are the _anisette_ cookies,” she picks one up and bites into it, munching happily. “And of course we have the crowning glory of it all,” she says while swallowing “the macaron tower.”

“Everything looks amazing,” Adrien says in wonder. “I’m not even sure where to start.”

Marinette plays with a strand of hair that usually frames her face, wrapping it around a finger nervously. “It can be little intimidating.”

“I guess that just means you’ll have to try a bit of everything,” Sabine says, making her plate. “On Christmas, it’s treats for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

Adrien beams at her, his smile so bright Marinette can barely keep upright.

For the sake of her health, Marinette scurries out from the kitchen and into the living room to find a place to sit. She sighs in contentment as she stares at their Christmas tree, draped in blue and yellow tinsel with a string of white lights swirling around it.

The scent of pine tickles her nose as she reaches out a hand to fondle a branch, picking up a candy cane ornament she made as a young child.

“That’s one of my favorites,” Tom comments from his seat on the floor.

Marinette giggles. “It’s all misshapen and weirdly bulbous at the top,” she argues.

“But you were so proud of it when you brought it home from school that year.”

She groans. “I also used to be proud of the macaroni necklaces I made in art and my timed multiplication tests, but we didn’t keep all of those.”

He laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that reverberates throughout the room. 

“I like this one the best,” Marinette says, reaching out to toy with a plastic reindeer, created to look like it had a marshmallow body with chocolate sticks for legs and antlers, resting on a plastic graham cracker base.

“Your mother got that ornament for our first Christmas together,” Tom remembers. “We didn’t really have any decorations. We barely even had a tree.”

Marinette smiles. “I know. You’d just opened the bakery and times were tight.”

“Are you kicking me out of my own story? On Christmas of all days?” he teases.

“Yes,” Marinette laughs, grinning smugly. “You didn’t have any extra money that year to really get each other gifts or celebrate the holiday season. And Maman came back with this little guy,” she holds out the reindeer ornament “to put on your tiny little _Charlie Brown_ tree.”

“I wouldn’t say it was _that_ decrepit,” Tom mumbles.

“And she said that she was so happy to open this tiny little bakery with you. That even if the only thing you ever sold was a s’more, she couldn’t be prouder of what you’d already accomplished together.”

Marinette carefully places the ornament back on the tree, running her fingers over the needles.

“It was really lovely,” Tom says with a happy sigh.

“Marinette!” Sabine calls from the kitchen. “Could you please come here, dear, I could really use your help.”

“Sure thing, Maman!” she yells back, hopping over her plate of treats and skipping to the kitchen, almost bowling over Adrien as she crosses the threshold.

“Whoops, sorry!” Adrien says, moving to his left just as Marinette moves to her right, blocking each other.

A hand comes to press against her chest in guilt. “N-no, totally my fault.” She steps to her left just as Adrien steps to his right, blocking each other again.

They both laugh nervously, red rushing to their cheeks.

“Never mind, sweetie, I got it,” Sabine says walking out of the kitchen with her breakfast, through the empty space the awkward teenagers left in the doorway. “Oh! But look at that,” she _tsks_ , staring up. “Looks like someone’s caught under the mistletoe,” she winks and waltzes away.

Marinette’s breath catches in her throat and her blush deepens, spreading down her neck and out to the tips of her ears. She feels like she’s on fire and she can’t meet Adrien’s eyes.

“W-we don’t h-have to--I mean unless you _want_ to--not that I expect you to want to!” her stutter resurfaces with a vengeance. “Just that if you don’t want t-to--I’d never make you do anything-- Maman’s just, we have this tradition and we always have mistletoe up, but it’s totally fine to not do it--”

Soft lips pressing against the top of her cheek, right under her eye, halt her speech.

“Merry Christmas, Marinette,” Adrien whispers, placing another gentle kiss on the corner of her mouth.

She melts.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at [jattendschaton.tumblr.com](https://jattendschaton.tumblr.com/).


End file.
